


All That Jazz

by Selkie_de_Suzie



Series: All That Jazz [1]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: 1930's AU, 1930's is the sexiest era, Chanteuse, Fluff, Gangsters, Gun Violence, Mob Wars, Mobster AU, Mobsters, Molls and Mobsters, Nightclub AU, Romance, Smutty Makeouts, butterfly bog, mob boss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles from my 1930's Nightclub AU - Bog is a Mob Boss who runs the infamous nightclub The Dark Forest, where Marianne performs as a Chanteuse. Tensions arise, danger is flirted with, and what the hearts wants can't be denied...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The heavy smoke in the air appeared blue in the spotlight, parting and curling around Marianne like water as she slinked across the stage, feeling both silly at playing the part of some Siren Singer but also powerful, the black jet beads of her gown glimmering like mad in the powerful beam, giving her a soft radiance as her voice cut through the smoke and hubbub of the club’s crowd,  _“If you want to dance cheek to cheek, then go home and talk all night long…”_

 

Knocking back another shot, Brutus gave an appreciative grunt both at the whiskey that this place had managed to corner and the smooth, sultry tones of the new torch singer, some rich girl who apparently liked playing with fire if she was performing at a club like this - a club the Boss was willing to fight tooth and nail for - and nodded his head as the smoky melody continued,  _“If you want to send somebody flowers, and share some stupid song…”_

 

Brutus smirked as the dame slid onto the piano, her gams making a daring appearance, and was about to make some comment about the hotsy-totsy little number she had on when he heard the Boss give a sharp inhale; when he glanced over, Brutus felt a jolt when he saw the Boss was looking at the girl with wide blue eyes, staring at her like she was…hell, Brutus had _never_  thought he would ever see an expression like _that_ on the Boss – 

 

The gal leaned back in a sultry, supine pose, her voice washing over the club in a melodious, seductive wave,  _“If you want a woman who believes that you’re what her life’s all about, Baby…”_ \- she looked out over the crowd with smoky, smoldering brown eyes and gave a cynical smirk and a wink, and Brutus swore he heard the Boss give a gulp -  _“…count me out.”_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU has ruined me in the best way possible - I owe it all to the incredible Primrooks for sending me the very first prompt for my Three Sentence Fanfic meme. I am so delighted that everyone has loved it as much as I have!
> 
> The song that Marianne sings here is "Count Me Out", which is actually from "All Dogs Go To Heaven 2". Though it is obviously very much NOT a song from the 1930's, the lyrics are just *so* perfect for Marianne =)


	2. Chapter 2

Bog glared. He _knew_ there would be trouble in hiring the little piano player, regardless of him needing a spy amongst Roland’s ranks, he just  _knew_ it. “Care to explain yourself, Mr. Elfsly?” he growled, his tone letting the younger man know that he was most certainly _not_ pleased. 

 

Sunny looked like he was about to wring his hands off from nerves, but Marianne saved him from stuttering out an explanation. 

 

“Sunny is an old friend of my sister’s,” she answered calmly, and Bog’s eyes snapped to her, eyes that were sharp and calculating and an utterly arresting shade of blue, a detail Marianne was quite certain she should not have been so distracted by. She met his glower with her own hard stare, before cooly continuing, “He plays piano over at my father’s club, a fact we all know you’re damn well aware of.” 

 

Bog snorted. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” He couldn’t believe it. Not only was he seeing _her_ again - the same dame from the week before, the one who had sung like some Siren, the one he hadn’t been able to get off his mind, her sultry voice and smoky eyes sinking into his skin like perfume, teasing at his senses to the point of distraction - but of _all the goddamn rotten luck,_  it was after he had spent two days holed up in his office going over paperwork, not bothering to shave and in a state of casual undress. His hair was disheveled, there was two days worth of stubble on his jaw, he was in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging off, and he was certain he reeked of bourbon and smoke. Given the circumstances, Bog felt he was more than justified in feeling sore at Sunny for bringing her with him, especially with her looking like…well, like _that_ , her dark eye sliding over him, pursing her rose-stained lips, and _dammit all to hell, of course she was seeing him like this._

 

“I heard The Dark Forest needed a new singer, that’s why I’m here,” Marianne retorted, keeping her eyes on his and valiantly not letting them slide down to his lean torso or to the wiry muscles of his arms, crossed in front of his chest defensively. Goodness, but he was mighty scarred up. She had never seen a man in such a state of undress before, not Father, certainly not Roland. She had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t for that fact alone that she was getting so distracted…Marianne crossed her own arms, praying that the flush on her cheeks could be blamed on her rouge. “Sunny mentioned it to me, but he had no idea that I would be auditioning that night, nor that I would be asked to perform straight away.” 

 

“I would have told her to stay away, Sir! This is no place for a lady like Miss Marianne!” Sunny’s voice was earnest, and the look he gave Marianne was torn between exasperation and fear for her. She fought a smile - even when his own goose was in danger of getting well and truly cooked, he was more worried about how his Boss was going to deal with her. He was a good egg. _I hope Dawn starts to see that._

 

“I can take care of myself, Sunny,” she assured him gently but firmly, “and I want to perform here.” 

 

“Whether or not you perform here, Miss Fairfield, is up to me,” Bog grit out. “This might be a… _shadier_ establishment then what you’re used to, but it’s still an establishment and it’s _mine_. I won’t have some rich girl here causing trouble just ‘cause she likes to play with fire -” 

 

“I’m not just _some rich girl_ , you louse,” Marianne snapped. “I knew this club was controlled by the Mob when I came in that night.” _I just didn’t know you were the Boss…_

 

That was the truth that made her want to cringe, thinking back to how she had acted that night, caught up in the thrill of performing a legitimate gig, the illicit excitement of knowing she was in a dangerous part of town, in a seedy joint. She had been blissfully ignorant, had had no idea just who she had decided to sing to that night, hadn’t known who he was when she had caught his eye and had felt that undeniable throb of heat pass through her, hadn’t been aware of the consequences when she had slinked over to his table, the smoke and music and thrill of the evening making her sink decadently into her new role of some Femme Fatale, the Mysterious New Chanteuse. She had certainly not known the danger of letting her fingers trail over the lean, powerful line of his shoulders, and had merely enjoyed the shudder she had gotten from him… _talk about playing with fire._

 

Marianne made herself focus and cocked an eyebrow at Bog, who continued to look at her with distrust in his eyes. “I’m not gonna cause you trouble, because Sunny is the only one who knows I’m here. I have my own place, so I can do late nights, and I can balance my rehearsals with Dawn and my gigs here easily. And as for playing with fire…” Marianne smirked. “Who says I’m afraid of getting burned?” 

 

That was a lie if there ever was one - Roland _had_ burned her, burned her bad, and she had no intention of ever getting hurt like that again - but the Big Bad Boss Man didn’t need to know that. And she _wasn’t_ afraid, she _wanted_ the gig, she was willing to do whatever it took to keep it.

 

And yes, the danger of it all fed a flame in her that she couldn’t deny any longer…

 

“You should be,” Bog muttered, before exhaling roughly, knowing it would be useless to fight against her when she had that determined glint in those dark eyes of hers - eyes, as he remembered how they smoldered, he had to be _very_ careful around now. He shook his head before continuing. “You get your own dressing room, but you take care of your own clothes. I don’t care how you get them, that’s your business.” 

 

Marianne couldn’t stop the joyful smile that bloomed on her face, even as Sunny sighed forlornly. “That won’t be a problem.” She had plenty of dresses, could even borrow some from Dawn, and she could always launder them to get the smell of smoke out…S _he was gonna perform!_

 

Bog took in her happy grin and how it transformed her face, and knew there was a very strong chance he would end up regretting this. He pushed himself off of the doorframe where he leaned, and made his way to her, arms still crossed and looming over her threateningly. “One sign of trouble, and you’re out. I hope you’re good at playing with fire, Tough Girl.” He held out a hand, eyebrow raised sardonically. 

 

She looked at it and hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in his, giving it a strong shake. “I am,” she murmured, meeting his gaze, and oh, she hoped she really was, because what with the warmth that pooled in her belly at his rough touch, the undeniable heat in his eyes as he looked into hers, Sunny staring confusedly between them, and the recollection of how deeply he had flushed when she had sung to him still burning in her memory…

 

…a part of Marianne knew there was a very real danger indeed of one of them getting burned. 


	3. Chapter 3

_“I run so fast,_ ” Marianne sang, strutting across the stage, her heels clicking, and she gave a sassy hip bump as the drum crashed,  _“a shotgun blast, can hurt me not one bit -”_  

 

_“I’m on my toes,_ ” Dawn responded, briefly mimicking a ballerina and going on pointé - really, Dawn had always dreamed of the ballet, and sometimes Marianne felt so guilty that she dragged her little sister into vaudeville and nightclubs. Even if it wasn’t burlesque like Dad always feared, it was still  dangerous for her to perform at a club with legit ties to the mob. But as long as Dawn thought the song and dance numbers they did for their Dad’s club was the extant of what Marianne got up too, and continued to have no idea where Marianne sneaked off to late at night…

 

Marianne forced herself to concentrate as Dawn sashayed over to where Marianne was, giving a far more demure hip bump before continuing the song,  _“’cause Heaven knows, a moving target’s hard to_ \- Sunny! You missed the beat!” 

 

“Sorry, Miss Dawn!” The little piano player flinched. “I swear it won’t happen again!” 

 

“It’s the fourth time now, Sunny,” Marianne rolled her eyes, and went over to where her water was. She had a feeling that watching her sister perform those sassy dance moves was proving to be too much of a distraction for him, but she wasn’t going to embarrass him by saying so. She took a swig of water and then groaned, feeling her muscles complain. She stretched out one leg behind her, arching her back in a smooth curve and grabbing it. “But we need a break. Dawn, get to stretching.”

 

“Bossy bossy,” Dawn muttered, but she quickly fell into similar movements, all while chatting easily with Sunny.

 

Marianne smirked and then heard the front door to the club open. Glancing over casually, she felt her stomach jolt when she saw her father walk in, followed by - _Oh my **God** …_

 

“Afternoon, darlings,” her father greeted them cheerfully. “I hope rehearsal is going well! Mister King and I just needed to stop by the office, we have some business to discuss, we shan’t disturb you.”

 

Marianne knew she should have been worried to hear her father talk about _business_ with a known Mobster, but she was far too distracted by the sight of the tall, lean and dark Mob Boss in such a different setting. 

 

Hat still on and hands in his pockets, Bog causally leaned against a table, looking far too menacing - _and dangerously attractive_  - for someone who was merely dropping by for a business chat. His mouth twitched as he looked at Marianne, those sharp blue eyes taking in her sweaty and flushed state, and she desperately wished that her rehearsal attire didn’t expose her legs so. It was one thing to play the part of Singer and Seductress at The Dark Forest, but here, in front of her father, her _sister_ … _Please don’t give away my secret, please please please…!_

 

“Nice digs ye got here,” was his only comment, his voice a soft, amused growl and he turned on his heel, before casually throwing over his shoulder as he followed Dad to the office, “You ladies have a good rehearsal, keep those legs limber.” 

 

Marianne felt her face burn even as Dawn gave a cheerful “Thank you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dawn and Marianne are singing "I Move On" from the musical Chicago. I can totally see Marianne rocking the part of Velma Kelly =)


	4. Chapter 4

Marianne frowned at him from across the bed, hair messy and makeup smudged and looking gorgeously rumpled. “You really shouldn’t smoke those things.” 

 

“We all got our vices,” Bog retorted, taking a long draw on his cigarette, shaking the matchstick’s light out. “’Sides, not all of us have to worry about our voices, little Miss Torch Singer -”  

 

Marianne plucked the cigarette away his lips, and he was about to splutter in outrage when she placed it on her lips and took a slow, dragging inhale. She pursed her lips and blew out a stream of smoke, her eyes closed and her lashes a dark fan against her cheek and oh God, _how_ did she make a single gesture look so painfully seductive? 

 

She coughed a bit and then shrugged at him, clearly unimpressed. “I just don’t see the appeal.”

 

Bog reached for her, tugging her across the sheets until she was up against him, and he took the cigarette back only to stub it out. “It’s an acquired taste,” he admitted, before pulling her in for a kiss. 

 

He knew he shouldn’t be so happy to drag her down to his level, shouldn’t get such a thrill that she was so willing to play with fire, and some part of him remained desperately guilty that all he could offer her was a string of trysts, at his place or hers but most often in some cheap hotel, in a vain attempt to keep the scent off their trail. But that guilt usually ended up being drowned out by sheer want and desire, and hell, it had been _so long_ since he had been this happy, ever wanted someone so _bad_ , and for some unknown reason, she wanted him back. 

 

He groaned into her mouth as she deepened the kiss, open-mouthed and intoxicating, shuddering as she raked her nails down his back and how the _hell_ did some rich girl who was such a supposed innocent know how to kiss like Lust incarnate, sweet and dark and demanding and stoking his fires to insane heights?

 

“You taste like sin, Tough Girl,” he managed to get out as they broke apart, panting for breath, his voice not rough with seduction but ragged with need. 

 

“ _You_ taste like an ashtray,” she retorted smartly, even as she tugged off his undershirt and her slip in short order and pulled him back to her.


	5. Chapter 5

She was perched on his desk when he came back to his office, leaning back on her hands, her legs crossed and one high-heeled foot swinging back and forth. Bog paused in the doorway, surprised. He thought that he wouldn’t see her until much later. “Evening. What brings you here? Aren’t you rehearsing with Elfsly?”

 

“I sent Sunny off. Told him that Dawn needed an escort to one of my Dad’s big dinner parties.”

 

Bog raised a brow. “Is that true?”

 

Marianne tossed her head unconcernedly. “It’s what got him to leave. He’s far too terrified of you to simply schedule practice for another day, I had to get creative. Besides, anything that will bust my Dad’s buttons is something that needs to be done often.”

 

Bog smirked. And people accused him of being devious. “Clever girl.”

 

She gave a little _hmmm_ of agreement and continued to watch him, a little smile lurking at the corner of her lips. Her eyes had a glint to them that Bog knew by now could either mean trouble or _Trouble_ , the key difference between them being the amount of clothes they would lose. He still couldn’t find that one tie after the last time.

 

His eyes briefly ran down the smooth lines of her legs, the skirt to her dress riding a bit high. It wasn’t one of the dresses she wore while singing, with those slitted skirts, but…God, did those legs of her’s remind him of the wonders of stockings - how they skimmed the skin, how silky they felt under his touch, how delightful it was to kneel before her and peel them off and press a kiss to the warm softness of her thigh…

 

Bog shook his head, knowing Marianne was watching him watching her. Getting distracted wouldn’t do him any favors. “So, your evening is now open.” 

 

She slid off of the desk and slowly made her way to him, that little teasing smile still on her face. “So is yours. Stuff and Thang have been dismissed, there’s no more deals to worry about, paperwork’s been taking care of, I told Brutus to block any calls…there’s nothing left. Nothing but you…” she reached him and looped her arms around his neck, her eyes going heavy lidded “…and me.” Clever fingers stroked the nape of his neck, teasing and soft.

 

Bog felt his blood thrum in his ears, her touch already sending little sparks of heat through him. God, after a long and tiresome day, this was - _she_ was - extremely welcome. “Which means…?” 

She looked up at him through the thick fringe of her lashes, the warm brown of her eyes almost glowing in the light of his desk lamp. “I think you know exactly what it means.”

 

Did he _ever_. 

 

Bog pulled her body flush against his, and bent his head to hers, ready to place a searing and hungry kiss on those still smirking lips, when he felt a hand reach into his jacket and pull out –

 

Marianne wiggled his gun at him, her eyes impish, her smile full of childish excitement. “Help me practice my aim.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I need to be on stage soon,” she manages to gasp into his mouth, even as she curls fingers hard into his shirt, the press of his gun holster against her stimulating her nerves even further, even as he shrugs off his jacket, his hat already on the floor, even as her beaded dress - _she’s got to catch the light, flicker like a flame up on that stage, gotta sparkle like she’s some kind of magic thing, a dark fairy, all glitter and siren song_  - is getting terribly _terribly_ rumpled, steadily riding up as he lets a hand ghost up one thigh. 

 

“And I need to get that meeting,” he responds, his voice a thickened growl as she rocks into him, long fingers stroking teasingly over a silken stocking and even silkier skin before reaching her garter, plucking at it, but it’s the roughness of his palm against her achingly hot core that has her gasping, making little mewling noises - _oh God, it’s just like one of those dime novels Dawn devours, she’s fooling around like some tawdry hussy in very public hallway in some two-bit gin joint with an extremely dangerous man who nonetheless kisses her like she’s his last hope for any bit of Heaven_ – 

 

He moans in almost miserable ecstasy when he feels how eager she is for him, and smothers her mouth in a kiss, biting into her, but the sound of a horribly familiar drawl - “Well now, I do believe that I may be intruding!” - has them jumping away from each other, and Marianne is flooded with a sickening numbness as Roland and his three goons saunter down the hallway to them, her ex-fiancé’s blonde hair and teeth and pistol gleaming in the dim light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Roland is a rival Mob Boss. But he pretends to be a legitimate business man, so Marianne's Father still sees him as a suitable match for Marianne.


	7. Chapter 7

On a day good Marianne was usually annoyed by the flawless, unceasing grin that Roland perpetually sported - _God, she can’t believe that she used to swoon over that!_ \- but now the sight of those pearly white teeth, bared in a contented smirk as he aimed his gun at Bog, filled her with such venomous rage she nearly shrieked, thrashing about in a desperate attempt to free herself from his goons grips. Though it had taken all three of them to hold her, she couldn’t budge. “Stay the hell away from him, Roland, you louse!”  

 

He clucked his tongue at her, giving her a reproachful, soulful look. “Now, Buttercup, I’m doin’ you a favor, truly I am.” He gestured easily to Bog, who was still panting from the earlier fight, clutching his arm where Roland’s first bullet had grazed him, knocking him down. “Darlin’, do you think your Daddy is gonna be too pleased to hear about you foolin’ around with this fella?” 

 

“Leave her out of this,” Bog rasped, his blue eyes cold and venomous and so desperately protective of her. A miserable twist of grief and something else, something Marianne is so scared to say is love, shot through her heart. “This is between you and me. You want to get a slice of the profit The Dark Forest turns out? Fine. _But you leave her out of this._ ” 

 

Marianne heard Sunny running backstage, calling for the other mobsters for backup, and she could only hope the little piano player was ready to risk everything - her father’s esteem, any chance at winning Dawn’s love - to help his Boss. “Roland -”

 

“Now, Buttercup, the men are talkin’…” Roland chuckled and leaned down to look into Bog’s face, the severe lines of it even harsher with grim acceptance. “I take a slice of the profits, _and_ her. What kind of fiancé leaves his intended to a beast like you?” 

 

She didn’t know if it was his casual misogyny, or his bargaining, or if it was simply the fact that she had spent too many years letting him ruin her life and she would be _damned_ if he ruined what she had with Bog. Something inside Marianne _snapped._  

 

She kicked out with a sharp heel, causing one goon to drop like a stone, and with another kick and a punch the other two were easy pickings - Roland always did place too much importance on looks rather than raw brute force - and she grabbed a gun, cocking it and aiming it at Roland.  _“You are not my fucking fiancé.”_


	8. Chapter 8

“Well, you’ve definitely got a little memento of that fight,” Marianne grimaced, thankful that she didn’t get queasy about blood the way that Dawn did, her needle making quick work of the wound.

 

Bog gave a snarl from where he lay on her sofa, torn between pain and anger. “I’ll be sure ta’ - **_argh!_** \- send a similar gift - **_bludy fuckin’ hell!_**  - ta tha’ blonde bastard - **_ARGH! FER FUCK’S SAKE, MARIANNE!”_**

 

“Be happy it’s not that deep,” she growled at him, snipping the thread and tying it into a neat knot. “And I’m trying my best here, I told you we should have gone to the hospital -!”

 

“Not a chance,” Bog panted, his face still haggard and pale from pain. “Roland’s friendly with the law, cops would be out looking for us. I’d rather take my chances with ye.” 

 

Marianne felt a twist of guilt go through her as she gazed down at him, sprawled, his teeth gritted and fists clenched. His jacket, dress shirt, and undershirt, shucked off in her haste to treat him, were all liberally splattered with blood, as was her own dress. Thank Heavens that Roland had such poor aim and had only grazed Bog’s shoulder. She looked at the fresh wound and tried to repress a shiver. She had always enjoyed the feel of Bog’s scars, their roughness sending shivers of pleasure through her as their bodies moved against each other, but…she had never wanted him to get one because of _her_. “I’m…Bog, I’m sorry about all of this, I never meant for any of this to happen -” 

 

“Hey…” He reached out and grabbed her hand, still bloody from tending to him. “Don’t you worry about any of that. This ain’t your fault, a war with Roland’s crew was inevitable, he’s been trying to edge in on my territory for years -” 

 

“But it started because of me, and now you’re hurt!”

 

His grip on her hand tightened. “Mob wars have been started over far smaller things, love.” His eyes, still hazy with pain, grew soft as he met her own guilty gaze. “And fighting for you is not something I’m gonna regret.” 

 

His words, low and rough and earnest, made her stomach flutter and her whole body flush with an undeniable warmth. She could take care of herself, she knew that, and so did he, but… _fighting for her, thinking she was worth this, it was overwhelming…_

 

“Besides,” Bog continued, a grin starting at his lips, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on that blonde bugger’s face when you pulled that gun on him.”

 

Marianne rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t just stand there -”

 

“And then you shot him in the bloody foot!”

 

“I had to keep him from following us!” Bog’s chuckles turned into a laugh at that, his shoulders shaking, before he jostled his wounded arm and gave a grunt of pain. Marianne pursed her lips, trying not to grin. “Huh, serves you right for laughing at me.”

 

“Never at you,” he assured her, his breath a bit short as he tried to find a more comfortable position, his long legs still splayed off the sofa. “Only at him.”

 

Marianne hummed, unable to stop the grin she got as she flashed back to Roland’s bug-eyed look when she had aimed one of his goons pistol’s at him. “Got to admit, that was seriously satisfying.” 

 

“ _I_ liked it,” Bog murmured, gazing at her with hooded eyes, his grin a mix between amused and hungry. 

 

Marianne snorted. “Yeah, don’t think I didn’t see that look on your face when I threatened him. Fine timing for you to get all starry-eyed, you romantic -”

 

“I’ve always admired a girl who can handle herself in a fight -”

“And what, seeing me about to shoot my scummy ex-fiencé made you all kinds of hot and bothered?” 

 

“ _You have no idea,_ ” he growled out before raising himself up, reaching for her. 

 

She shoved him back down as gently as she could. “You just got shot!”

 

“That bullet barely grazed me!”

 

“I just stitched that up, I’m not gonna risk opening it just because you wanna fool around!”

 

“It would be worth it!”

 

Marianne was inclined to agree as she was faced with just how terribly _tempting_ Bog looked just then, hungry-eyed and shirtless and sprawled against her sofa - _it would be so easy to pin him there, so easy to straddle him and have him groaning out her name in a matter of moments_ \- but she knew she had to be the responsible one. “Nu-uh, I don’t care how much of a tough guy you are, we’re gonna have that heal first.” 

 

“Tough guy…” He murmured, letting her push him back down to the sofa. He gave a sudden chuckle. “More like tough girl.”

 

She cocked her head at him. “What’s that?”

 

“You.” He pulled her hand to him and gave a soft kiss on her wrist, his breath warm against her skin. “My trigger-happy, wound-dressing Tough Girl.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Bog and Marianne both curse a blue streak in this AU, but really can you blame them? Besides, poor Boggy just got shot.


	9. Chapter 9

“What are  _these?”_

Bog cocked a lazy brow at her, his long legs stretched out on the desk. “What do they look like, Tough Girl?” 

Marianne peered at them, letting them dangle from one finger, gleaming silver in the honey colored light of his desk lamp. “Handcuffs.”

“Clever one, you are.” 

She wrinkled her nose at him. “And you’re  _cute_.” He made a face back at her, and she grinned before looking down at them again. “What are you doing with a pair of handcuffs?”

Bog grinned, keeping his eyes on his newspaper, his teeth showing satisfied and sharp. “Once upon a time, when I was just starting out, some copper tried to take me in. Green fella, fresh off the farm. Wanted to test his mettle. Slapped those on me, didn’t even buy me dinner.”

Marianne leaned forward, amber eyes bright with fascination. She loved to hear him talk about the exciting escapades he had gotten up to in his line of work. “What happened?” 

“He was in the middle of reading me my rights when I knocked him out cold.”

“But if your hands were -”

“A head-butt is a mighty weapon in a street fight, Tough Girl.” 

She snorted. Goodness, but was that a mental image. “So you knocked him out, and then…?”

“Took the keys to ‘em and hightailed it out of there. Kept them as a sort of trophy.” Bog flipped the newspaper over, his expression smug. “No one has ever tried to cuff me since.” 

Marianne leaned back on his desk, studying the mechanism. “You still have those keys?” 

He nodded lazily, unaware of the dangerous gleam coming into her eyes. “Yeah, in the desk drawer.”

Marianne slid off of the desk, the red velvet of her gown rucking up her thigh a bit. She sauntered over to where he sat, let her hands trail along his broad shoulders, and he circled one of her wrists with his hand, long fingered and rough and warm, a manacle that she never felt held back by. “I’ve always been curious about these.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

_Click._

Bog looked down sharply at that, his eyes widening as Marianne daintily snapped his wrist into one of the cuffs. He shot her a narrow look, warning. “Watch yourself, Tough Girl -”

“Humor me,” she said, but her gaze was warm and eager if teasing, and she looped his arms behind his chair, making him drop his paper, and then  _clicked_  the other cuff to his free hand. She smiled, her lips the same lush crimson of her dress. “Besides, there’s a key.” 

_“Wha’ are ye playin’ at?”_ Ooooh, was he getting angry, or was he beginning to feel the charge in the air, dangerous and warm and intoxicating…?

Marianne bit down on a smile and concentrated on turning to his desk, scratching through the drawer the cuffs had been in, before giving a little cry of delight and holding up a small, silver key. “Hello there! Glad I found you…” 

Bog scowled. “Right, you had your fun and games. Now be bloody careful with my key -” 

_“My key,_ ” Marianne retorted, dropping it down the front of her dress like a kid tossing a penny in a well. Bog paused his grousing at that, his brows lifting despite himself. She smirked at him, and slowly moved to him, hips swaying, heels clicking. “And I do believe I’m just getting started on my game.” 

Hell, when she talked like  _that_ , looked like  _that_ , got  _that_ gleam in her eye - “What…what kind of game are we talking about?” 

Her smirk deepened. “Let’s call it  _Interrogation._ ” 

Bog’s blood decided to take a trip down south. “ _Ah._  Well. We can…see how that goes.”

She laughed at that, cocking a hip as she stood in front of him. “Sure thing.” 

Bog smirked up at her, letting his brows sink low, his eyes gleaming. “Though I should warn you, Tough Girl - I don’t break easily.” 

Quick as anything, she was straddling him, and he nearly moaned at the sheer heat of her, already burning through to him. “You say that now, Big Bad Boss Man…” she murmured, amber eyes both crafty and hungry and already gleaming in victory, “…but I bet I can make you sing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The result of my little head canon that the only time Bog likes being handcuffed is when Marianne holds the key…
> 
> Also, I am trash.


	10. Chapter 10

“You,” Bog growled, leaning against the bathroom door, glaring at her, “are far too much trouble.”

“I thought you  _liked_  trouble,” she laughed, dunking her head under the hot, steamy spray, then tossing it back in a way that brought all of his attention to the wet, slick slope of her slender neck. It still sported several of his love bites - she had groused about using up a tin of makeup to cover it for the stage, but he had a feeling she truly wasn’t that fussed about it. 

She batted her eyes at him, drops of water clinging to the thick dark lashes. “We have that in common, remember? I’m just trying to be a supportive -” 

“You want to be supportive, don’t attempt to seduce me before I head off to business!”

Marianne snorted and stuck out a leg to wash, grabbing the soap and working up a rich lather. “ _Business._  It’s just you threatening a bunch of other mobsters who need to be reminded you’re the baddest one around, it’s not  _that_  important -” 

“And what, joining you is?” Bog retorted, a bit of a sneer to his voice, which did nothing to hide how his eyes were watching her hands as they glided up and down her slender calf, curvy and lean, suds washing off in the waterfall of spray and  _goddammit, **why**  had he thought it was a good idea to stop in to let her know he was going?_

_“Yes,_ ” Marianne said, watching him watch her, her eyes teasing and golden and sly. “I happen to think it’s  _very_  important.” She finished with the one leg and then stepped under the spray again, her fingers sinking into her sodden locks once more. She shrugged languidly. “But if you absolutely have to go, I won’t stop you. I’d hate for that suit to get wrinkled. You should wear pinstripes more.” 

Bog sighed as he watched his - Lover? Moll? Girl? Marianne was simply Marianne, what she was to him couldn’t be pinned down in a mere word - wash herself.  _Temptress_. Damn the meeting and damn his suit getting wrinkled. He wouldn’t be the first mobster to put pleasure before business, and who would honestly blame them with her looking like that - 

Marianne peeked at him and grinned at his obvious turmoil. “You can always take a raincheck. I happen to have a free afternoon.” 

Bog raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. “You wouldn’t mind showering twice in one day?”

The look she gave him was positively molten. “Not when getting dirty is _so much fun._ ” 

_Fucking **hell.**_  Bog grabbed his hat and strode out of the bathroom, ignoring how his heart was racing, the stab of burning arousal lancing through him. His voice was almost harsh with command as he called to her over his shoulder. “I’m done at 6. There better still be hot water when I get back, Tough Girl.” 

Marianne tilted her head up to the spray, grinning against it. “Duly noted, Boss Man.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my followers on Tumblr let me know that they had a dream about my 1930's AU - "Marianne was in the shower, Bog's shower, and then the man himself walked in. He was all dressed up, pinstripe suit, the hat etc. as he had business to attend to and Marianne flirted the hell out of him, trying to get him to join her. You could tell he REALLY wanted to but resisted as he was late for his meeting. But I bet he made it up to her later."
> 
> SO THIS HAPPENED. Goodness, but I love my followers.


	11. Chapter 11

_“Let me…entertain you…”_  Marianne sang, doing a slow spin across the floor, her stocking feet allowing her a measure of smoothness that made her glide as effortlessly as a butterfly on the breeze.  _“Let me make you smile…”_

She reached the chair and arched her back, rolling her hip in a slow and sensual circle. The straps of her slip kept falling off her shoulders, and what with her already looking the absolute picture of indecency, Marianne felt there was no sin in letting her hands glide down her front to where the hem of her scant slip was already riding up a bit, a garter peeking out…

_“Let me do a few tricks, some old and then some new tricks, I’m very versatile…”_

She twirled around the chair once more, grabbing the back of it commandingly before shooting a grin over her shoulder. “I’m just saying, maybe burlesque is the next new venue for The Dark Forest,” she said airily, her smile deepening as he shifted restlessly, sitting backwards in his chair and positively growling with impatience for her to continue her song and dance.

The grin he gave her was sharp and sly, and she felt he had never looked quite so deliciously  _dangerous_  as he did then, his state of undress matching her own, garbed in only his trousers and undershirt, his suspenders just a few moments away from being shrugged off.

“Didn’t think you were so eager to try your hand at it,” Bog retorted. Yet the way his eyes were blatantly drinking her in - rumpled slip and stockings, and mussed hair and makeup - belied any crossness to his words. His hat cocked over one eye rakishly – he was a flagrant abuser of the notion that hats couldn’t be worn indoors – and his bare feet, long and bony, tapped out a rhythm on the hardwood floor. “Where did a rich girl learn an act like this?”

“I picked up some vaudeville tricks,” Marianne laughed, executing another slow and easy twirl, years of ballet aiding her. Her slip rode up some more and a creamy shoulder was exposed, making Bog lean forward, the blue of his eyes intent and thoroughly entertained. “Dad had some old performers at his club. They thought Dawn was a pip, taught us all they knew. We wanted so desperately to try one of their acts, but Dad said it wasn’t proper –“

Bog gave a bark of laughter. “And what, burlesque  _is?”_

“A good owner considers all his options, Boss Man…” Marianne purred, slinking slowly across the floor to him. She would never seriously consider burlesque – some things were too brazen even for  _her_ – but she would have her fun with teasing him. She continued, her voice caressing the melody like velvet…

_“And if you’re **real**  good, I’ll make you **feel** good…”_

She pushed into the words, letting them positively  _simmer_  with meaning as her arms furled upward, her hem just teasing the tops of her stockings. Bog’s slow, widening smirk let her know he got the signal loud and clear.

_“I want your spirits to climb…”_

Bog growled at that and reached for her, and she danced away, biting down on a laugh.  ** _Something’s_** _gonna be climbing soon…_

“So impatient,” she scolded, before smiling at him soft and sweet, the danger in those half-lidded honey eyes negating any innocence in it. “Is it the song? Too slow? How about a classic instead?”

She ran to one of his walls, banging her elbow on it before striking a seductive pose against it, her lashes fanning across her cheeks.  _“If you want to dance cheek to cheek, then go home and talk all night long…”_

 Bog snorted. “How is  _that_  a classic, Tough Girl?”

“It’s a classic for  _us,_ ” Marianne shot back, faintly nettled.

But his eyes were bright and his smirk was full of fond memory, and  _oooh,_  he was  _deliberately_  twitting her, the louse, he damn well  _did_  remember that song - 

She grinned at him dangerously and sashayed across the floor, dust sparkling through the shafts of sunlight that had fought their way through his windows, continuing her melody.  _“If you want to send somebody flowers, and share some stupid song…”_

She gave a slow, sliding tease of a wriggle to properly distract him before snatching his hat off his head, plunking it down on hers.  _“If you want a women –“_

“I thought the point of a strip tease was to  _remove_  clothing,” Bog said dryly, cocking a brow at her.

“Each item I put on, I’ll take another off,” Marianne retorted, and to prove her point, she planted a foot on her chair, the smooth and lean curve of her leg highlighted by the sheer black hosiery that clung to it so lovingly. “Keeps the audience guessing.”

She teased fingers up to the clasp of her garter, and smirked as Bog scooted his chair forward. “You didn’t even ask what other tricks I learned.”

Bog nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still tracking the achingly slow drag of her fingers. “Do tell.”

Marianne unhooked the clasp and grinned. “One of them was a hat trick.”

She pulled her stocking off smooth as she could and tossed it at him before dropping back into her song, her voice as rich and powerful and haunting as that first long ago night.  _“If you want a woman who believes that you’re what her life’s all about –“_

Bog snatched the garment out of the air and flung it over one broad shoulder, grinning as she put her foot back on her chair, legs stretching long and lovely, taking off his hat to roll it across her arms as smooth as you please.  _“Baby –“_

She flicked a wrist and sent the hat flipping up into the air in a wide arc. She then gracefully twirled herself down onto her seat, her legs crossing saucily, and neatly snatched the hat just as it fell, tugging it down onto her head.

She looked up at him from beneath the broad brim, and an amber eye sparkled with happy mischief as she finished her song.  _“-Count me out.”_

She pulled the brim up and primly folded her hands. “Any critiques, Boss Man?”

Bog’s response was to stretch out a long arm and hook a hand around her chair, dragging her forward until he could pull her up and to him -

His blue eyes and his sharp-toothed grin were equally hungry. “C’mon over here and I’ll  _show_  you just how much I liked it, Tough Girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The result of Chanteuse!Marianne ambushing me with this plot bunny and once again doing what she wants. Girl will *not* be ignored. 
> 
> Just a bit of playfulness. Mob Boss!Bog and Chanteuse!Marianne continue to be adoring trash babies for each other. 
> 
> Also, obviously neither of the songs here are from the 1930′s. “Let Me Entertain You” is actually from the musical "Gypsy", but I simply had to have Chanteuse!Marianne sing it here!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee little holiday drabble that is based on a post I made on my Tumblr: 
> 
> "I made the mistake of picturing Mob Boss!Bog in a disheveled state (vest undone, sleeves rolled up, all round rumpled) with a Santa hat perched on his head, and Chanteuse!Marianne, all done up in Christmassy glamour, on his lap/hanging off of him, in the middle of the floor of the Dark Forest Nightclub after the annual Christmas Party, somewhere between being enormously satisfied and deeply regretful over the decision to spike the eggnog." 
> 
> Merry Christmas, my lovelies, and be wary of eggnog =)

_“Ah hate parties,”_  Bog groaned, tipping his head back so far that it was a wonder that the cheerful Santa hat perched upon his head stayed on. 

Marianne, despite how muzzy her head was feeling, had to admire the inanimate object’s tenaciousness. She arched a brow at the Mob Boss, quite proud of the gesture what with how deliciously  _dizzy_  she felt, close to lolling. “ _You_ were the one to hold it here, Boss Man.” 

“No, that was my mother,” Bog retorted, his eyes shadowed with his scowl, tugging at his already loose tie. “Every bloody year, she does this.  _She’s_  the one who sends out the bloody invitations,  _she’s_  the one who invites all the bloody fools, and  _she’s_  the one to make a bloody mess of my club with all this  _nonsense_  -” 

“That nonsense was  _fun_ , Mister King, and you know it.” Marianne wriggled closer to him, her skirts rustling as she shifted upon his lap. Goodness, but she was glad that she had been able to convince Dawn that  _she_  ought to wear the sparkling golden number with all the ruffles, no matter how many times her sister had said it would be  _“striking”_  with her eyes. The glitter would have gotten all over Bog. 

Besides, she was quite pleased with her gown - she hadn’t been able to get the booze stains out of her burgundy taffeta liked she hoped, but this dark green velvet was  _stunning_ with its mermaid skirt and how it hugged her curves, making her pale skin glow in the spotlight after she had been coaxed up to the stage by the rest of the partygoers to sing a few yuletide tunes, though she was sure they had never been sung with such a  _sultry_  twist. Add the icy sparkle of Mother’s diamond necklace at her throat and few little sprigs of holly twined into her dark locks, and she had looked the very picture of Christmas Glamour.  

There was also the fact that Bog hadn’t been able to keep his eyes nor his hands off of her. He had been occupied with keeping track of the booze that was so freely sloshed about with generous yuletide cheer and avoiding partygoers in general, but they had gotten a few stolen moments, those long fingers caressing the velvet and stroking up the curve of her waist, making her heart quicken and her skin flush with a delicious heat… 

But now her head was swimming, and Marianne let it fall gently upon Bog’s broad shoulders, nuzzling into his warmth and thankful that his clothing was already rumpled from the party. Bog looped his arm tighter around her, pressing her close, and gave her brow a soft kiss, and Marianne felt some of the ache behind her skull leave. She gave a soft little hum of gratitude, and Bog sighed deep and full as he leaned his head against hers, his hat slipping down a bit more.  

She probably  _should_  have been worried about someone walking in on them like this, in the middle of The Dark Forest’s dance floor, the infamous Big Bad Boss Bog sprawling upon a chair and looking like the grimmest Father Christmas ever, and her twined around him like tinsel on a tree… 

 _Ah, to hell with it._  There was no danger - everyone else had left, the floor of the nightclub empty and dim and left in cheerful disarray. Bog had been right, Griselda’s parties were  _exhausting._ To think that she had thought no one could beat Dawn’s sheer cheer and exuberance when it came to throwing a yuletide gala…

And all she wanted right now was to snuggle off her buzz, and she wanted to do so with Bog.  _But first…_

Marianne reached up a hand to tug at his hat, giving him a smirk, her eyes hooded and sly. “Who was brave enough to put this on you?” 

Bog smirked back at her. “Thang. Stuff most likely put him up to it, he’s always an easy target when he’s knackered. Might have to have a few words with him later.” His brow lowered, and his lips twisted with a scowl. “With a crowbar.” 

Marianne lightly smacked his shoulder. “Don’t be a bully. It’s not Thang’s fault you make a rotten Santa.” She then leaned back and tilted her head before giving a soft laugh. “Though you  _still_ managed to get someone on your lap…” 

He smirked up at her, blue eyes sly and bright. “Then I might as well ask you what you want for Christmas.” 

 _You._  

Marianne hastily prayed that her blush could be blamed on drinking and rolled a shoulder back in a determinedly blasé shrug. “No more eggnog, that’s for sure.” She shook her head in somewhat horrified wonder. “ _What_ on earth was in that?”

“You don’t want to know,” Bog said flatly. “I thought I was safe with the mulled wine, but then I found out it was Aunt Plum’s recipe…” 

Marianne’s wince slid into a rueful laugh. “Even if we didn’t avoid hangovers, at least we escaped all that mistletoe.” 

Bog flushed and looked down, embarrassed. “I – I can talk to Mother about that –” 

“Bog.” He looked up at her, eyes wide, and Marianne smiled at him, affection a soft glow in her amber eyes. “It’s _fine_. Dawn would have done the same thing.” She fiddled with his tie, ducking her face down. “I’m just happy Griselda  _likes_  me, even if she doesn’t know how some blue blood hussy is leading her precious boy to a life of sin –” 

“She knows more than she lets on,” Bog said dryly. “She’s treacherous, that woman. Wouldn’t have lasted in bootlegging as long as she did if she wasn’t.” 

Marianne blinked. “Griselda was in  _bootlegging?_ ” 

Bog’s smile was an odd mix of abashed and fond. “It’s how she and my father met.” 

Marianne shook her head wonderingly. Good  _Lord,_  but Bog had a hell of a family history.  

As she was lost in thought, Bog’s eyes strayed over to the silver and sparkle of the necklace that nestled in the slim hallow of her throat, his expression getting a bit withdrawn. He looked up at her once more, a worried frown furrowing his brow, and licked his lips a touch nervously. “I…I might as well tell you now that I haven’t had much experience with what kind of gifts a blue blood would appreciate –” 

“You know me better than that,” Marianne scolded mildly, tweaking his ear, his recoil causing his hat to get even more lopsided. She passed a hand over her necklace, the gesture an odd mix of both protective and careless. “This was my mother’s. She wore it at every Christmas party Dad threw, so that’s the only reason I wore it tonight.” She softened and curled her fingers through his hair, soft and sweet. “Don’t worry about what kind of present a blue blood would appreciate, Bog. You know what _I_  like. That’s what matters.” 

She then shrugged, a bit bashful. “I mean, truly…that’s only if you even  _wanted_  to think about a gift, which you don’t. Tonight…tonight was more than enough.” 

_Being with you is more than anything I could ever ask for._

Bog felt his breath catch in his throat at the unspoken confession, and took her in, so beautiful with her amber eyes and warm blushes, so utterly  _perfect_ in her mussed glamor, the soft green velvet of her dress drawing across her pale skin in a way that reminded him of a ribbon tied tight around a present, just  _waiting_  to be unwrapped…

_Actually…_

Bog’s smile was slow and satisfied and sly, and Marianne felt a thrill of  _something_  when he turned it on her. “Be that as it may…I think I  _do_  have a present that you’ll appreciate.” 

Marianne arched a brow at him, amused. “Oh?” 

Bog’s smile became distinctly dangerous, a gleam coming into his eyes, and he suddenly moved. Marianne gave a slight oath of surprise as he stood, clutching at his shirt. The Santa hat had finally fallen off, and Marianne’s wide eyes watched it as it drifted to the floor before she looked back at him, shocked.  _“Bog –!”_

She was then gently placed upon his chair, Bog kneeling down in front of her, his fingers trailing up one of her legs, sharp fingers catching at the dark, silky stocking there. Marianne’s heart began to race so fast it was almost painful. “Bog –?”

Her skirt was rucked up enough to expose where her stocking latched to her garter, and Marianne bit down on her lip to contain her squeal as his fingers went to the clasp there. “Bog,  _anyone_  could walk in – !” 

“They’re all back home by now, visions of sugar plums and hangover cures dancing in their heads,” Bog retorted, his large hands easily spanning her legs, caressing the smooth and curvy lines before pulling off her high heel. “It’s just us now, Tough Girl. So let me give you your gift.” 

Marianne was about to protest some more but then Bog lowered his head – 

Her breath caught in her throat and heat blossomed in her groin as Bog began to peel away her stocking with his teeth, the thin fabric pulled taut under their crooked sharpness, his lips soft and warm, his breath hot and moist across the sensitive flesh of her thigh –

Marianne’s blush covered her whole body, but the warmth of it was  _nothing_ compared to the smoldering he was spreading through every inch of her.  _Oh_ , but he was _horrible_ , wonderful and magnificent and  _evil_  and all  _hers_  –

She carded her fingers through his dark hair, the gesture both affectionate and serving the purpose of pulling him closer, her smile wicked with delight and her eyes tender with love. “Merry Christmas, Big Bad Boss Man.” 

Long fingers twined with hers as his other hand curled at her hip, and his voice rasped over her skin in a warm, rough murmur that had her shivering, it was so dark and low and loving.  _“Merry Christmas, Tough Girl.”_   


End file.
